


Independence Day

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Depression, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Hancock needs a hug, Human Hancock, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Ghoul Hancock, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 14:44:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13526472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: The world, it's dead, but the people aren't. In spite of everything, there's always a reason to celebrate. John Hancock, though, he's not in the mood. It's the hottest summer he remembers, and the cocktail of vodka, Jet and Mentats feels better than being in his skin. Everything else is just... details.And details only matter to detectives. He's bad, bad with detectives.





	Independence Day

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the warnings, they're not there for shits and giggles. Pre-ghoul Hancock is a ball of regret and has to be protected.
> 
> Additionally, just know I am not a native speaker AND I predominantly write in British English. If anything needs to be corrected, please drop me a note :)

It's the summer of 2285, the hottest John remembers.

Alone on the roof of the Old State Building, sprawled motionlessly on the impromptu blanket set in the shade just between the turret and the radio transmitter, he’s sure he’s totally dying. Sweaty blond locks cling to his face, dirty shirt which used to be white sometime within the last five hundred years sticks to clammy skin. He left the red coat and the hat discarded on a chair downstairs, the unfortunate symbols of his status all the more unwelcome for the thick and surprisingly sturdy weave of ancient fabrics. Even just the unbuttoned shirt and tight pants are too much. He’d gladly strip down to undergarments, he'd even get naked, if only he could muster the energy to move. The Jet and Mentats cocktail which he washed down with stale vodka is only now starting to work, but combined with the ambient temperature, it already makes him sluggish and overheating regardless of the number of layers he’s wearing. His head is spinning, but not in a pleasant way, not a fun, trippy way at all. Through the fog clouding his mind, he can faintly hear the celebrations below, the music, the songs, the laughter, softened into an incomprehensible blur of sounds too muffled to be separated.

It’s the Fourth of July, the grandest holiday in the times of old, the day when the guys referred to as _the Founding Fathers_ signed some paper or another over five hundred years ago and called it _Independence_. Daisy said there used to be fireworks and barbecue parties. John doesn’t know what a barbecue party means and he can’t really wrap his head around the idea of people setting things on fire as a way celebrate anything, least of all some historical buffoons putting their names on some list, but he can respect that. Those pre-war people, they were savage. It’d be fun to meet them, John thinks, and kick some asses together.

He groans unintelligibly and tries to stretch his limbs without hurting himself. It’s hard to judge distance, though, what with the haze before his eyes and the ringing in his ears, and he scrapes his left hand on the turret base's raw edges.

‘Excuse you,’ he mumbles, vaguely offended, then giggles and frowns all at the same time. Or not; time is hard to evaluate on Jet mixed with Mentats. His mind is both slow and hyperactive at once, the nervous system completely fried while ideas bounce around in his head with terrifying clarity he will not remember when he sobers. Time, though. It’s shit. He doesn’t know if it’s been minutes or hours since he climbed up here and took the hit, if he popped the pills before or after, if he found the vodka up here or brought it along. Details, details. Who cares about details? Details are only important for detective work, he thinks, and he’s not doing detective work. He’s bad, bad at detective work. He’s bad, bad at detectives.

There’s blood oozing from the back of his hand where he scraped it, red and warm, human blood and for some reason, it’s the saddest thing in the world. This, or the fact that even now, even here, even dead inside and completely fucked in the head, even, even, even… he still can’t stop thinking about Nick _fucking_ Valentine. And how pathetic is that? He’s changed, a different man, he’s the mayor of Goodneighbor, he’s killed actual people for this little dump of a home, he’s. He’s someone now. He’s John Hancock. He’s John fucking Hancock and he has everything he wants right the fuck here. He’s a god here. He’s immortal. He’s high, so high, and the drop is going to be sudden, and he will fall, and fall, and fall.

Truth is, nobody’s ever loved him. It’s obvious, it’s… it’s just there. His birth wasn’t planned, an accident, a spur of a moment fuck which ended up having consequences, but not for his stoner mother or his drunkard not-father, or the blond guy who fucked his mother and promptly fucked off. He’s smarter than he looks, he can draw conclusions. He’s thirteen years his brother’s junior, for fuck’s sake, of course nobody wanted him there. But he. He’s always trouble, isn’t he, and his parents knew that, and Pat knows that too, only he’s no longer _Pat_ , just _mayor McDonough_ , the sick fuck John should have killed but couldn’t because they’re brothers and Pat used to have his moments, too. Details, details. Like it matters now. John is here, now, his hand is bleeding and his brain is swelling, and he thinks there are things. Important things, but, who cares. The world’s ended some two hundred years ago, who has the fucking time for that shit!

He grins like a madman. He has a kid now, too. Adult now, actually, she is like, twenty something, but he didn’t know she was his blood before. She’s nothing like him, Fahrenheit, she’s tough and she’s good people. She’s real good people. Loyal and fun and stern when necessary. She’s a good shot and a fucking hardass. And she’s not blond, thank fuck, she’s a redhead, she’s like, perfect. His daughter. A fuck-up like him for a father, and yet she turned out fine. And she’s the exception. She cares. If he rolled over the railing and snapped his neck, she’d miss him.

_Does Nick miss me_ , he thinks and before he can stop the stupid ideas his overheating brain is conjuring, here it goes: the memories spinning like a film reel, ugly and stupid and hopeful all at once. How the damn detective used to take him along on cases even though John completely sucked at this whole investigation business. How they had lunches together almost every day, for company, sure, but more so because Nick had to make sure fifteen-year old John actually ate sometimes. How, once, John wasn't a complete waste of space when he accidentally saved Nick from a group of raiders. How after old Patrick's death, he got too high to care about consequences and just fucking went for it, screwed it up like a damn loser he was – how he kissed Nick and told him everything, bared all of his stupid feelings.

How Nick _fucking_ Valentine, the damn synth detective too good to be considered a danger even in a city full of bigots, how Nick gently pushed him away and simply told him _no, I'm sorry, I can't._

And it's too hot and it still hurts and John hates how tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. It's been years, more than a decade, he should know better by now, he should – but he doesn't, and it still hurts. The music and laughter below rise and fall, or maybe it's just his heartbeat, irregular now that the Jet is kicking in fully. If he stays up here, if he punches another Jet and maybe adds a Psycho to the mix, he may die. It's. Pathetic, really, but. He may actually die. It's... it's. If John dies here and Nick Valentine is his last thought, that will serve him, that will show him... that. Oooh.

Or he may not die. He considers the other option, trying to drown out the nearly deafening pounding in his ears by humming and errant melody. The box sitting in the desk drawer in his office – his _office_ ! - and thinks, _yes, that_. And yeah, that's a possibility, yet. What if. Whaaaat iiiiif. He can. Like. Do this. List things that can happen, may happen, will happen. Things happen all the time, hearts are broken all the time, people die. What if he tries that option and it kills him?

What if this, what if that. Details, again, all those stupid details. The song stuck in his head is a stupid melody he heard Nick Valentine whistle once, and his hands are shaking. There's a gust of wind, cool against the sweaty plains of his chest, and it's not wind but his own breath. Goooood. He has goosebumps and his skin is tingling, and what if he closes his eyes and imagines the breath is someone else's? He's the mayor, _he's_ the mayor, he's the _mayor_ , he. He's _the_ mayor and he can do whatever he wants. He can bite his lip and stick his hand in his pants, and he can pretend he's not a miserable sick fuck who gets off to the thought of the guy who rejected him _thirteen years ago_. It's short and fast and disgusting, too dry and too sweaty, and he makes no sound, and he's a mess. Not for the first time, not for the last time, he wipes the tears away with the back of his hand. Red stains his vision – yes, the bleeding, he forgot, and it's a pretty color, this red, like setting something on fire. The air tastes like a promise.

His limbs are stiff and it hurts walking, and he stumbles down the ladder and kisses the floor and breaks his nose. Nose, nose, what a weird word, and a weird thing to have anyway. Bones, bones he can respect, but nose is just plain stupid. Who needs a God-damn nose. Oooh. John picks himself up, laughs, leans on the wall and chokes on some blood – wherever did it come from? Ah yes, the broken nose – and his brain spins inside his skull or something because he was up but now he's down again. Whaaat. The desk though, it's not rocket science, heh, rocket, rockets are funny, how they go _boom_ and break the world, that's. _Stop bouncing_ , he snaps at his mind, but it doesn't listen at all, that's rude, he's the motherfucking mayor, he deserves some respect.

'Concentrate, concentrate, John. Jooooohn. John Hancock,' he mutters, giggles, groans, all in succession or maybe all at once. Intentions don't make no difference when everything is sort of like, yes. Like that.

The desk drawer is locked and he finds it funny, funnier even than the nose thing, which is hilarious, noses, they're so ridiculous, who the hell even came up with noses. He's going to ban them, noses. In his city. He'll make it forbidden to have noses. Everyone will have to leave theirs at homes before coming to visit. Even Nick. Nick. Nicky.

It's easy to pick a lock with a key, like, extremely easy, almost like keys were made to open locks, something? But that makes no sense. John doesn't know fuck about them funny business like keys. He just turns it in the lock and it works almost as well as a good set of bobby pins, and. The box. And in it, syringe, a big one, like. Size of his entire hand. And it glows. His fingers tingle when he holds it, and it glows, and. He knows what it's gonna do. But does it matter? Everything's a detail, everything's a _what if_ , and details are only important when you're a detective. John is a bad, bad detective. Nicky is the detective, and Nicky isn't here, and Nicky doesn't love him back, and it's easy to forget details and just do it, pierce the skin and watch as the glow expands under reddened skin. John's the mayor of Goodneighbor and he's not the dumb blond kid who didn't know better, and he's pathetic and disgusting, but he knows. It's fine. It's fine. There's fireworks behind his eyelids and fireworks burning in his flesh, and John celebrates, too, his own independence.

And John dies.

It's the summer of 2285, the hottest July that John can remember. America is dead, the world is dead, whatever, but not John. Oh no, not John! John is so high, so low, so _something_ , and it's suddenly not so bad, this dying thing, just too hot and too sweaty and too teary, and he just. Closes his eyes, thinks. Thinks and imagines and remembers and wants. Then, smiling, smiling. He takes the plunge and falls.

It's his birthday.

 

**Author's Note:**

> First fic in this fandom and of course of all the things I could have written, I have to go for the self-destructive, self-harming angle because of reasons.  
> Let me know what you think. It won't affect me writing or not writing more, I mean, I'm already writing more, but it'll definitely make me feel better about that giant canon-divergent (or canon-parallel?) thing I'm devoting all my love and attention to. Like it's not a waste of time. Thanks.
> 
>  
> 
> And here go a few things which will explain how this is a sort-of prequel:  
> 1\. I set up a timeline for the purpose of the big fic. According to that timeline, Nick arrives in Diamond City in 2262, that is, 25 years before canon events. I decided on that because it was supposed to be during the reign of the previous mayor, but we're not told when that guy became mayor and how long he was one. I took a date that looked probable enough for a mayor to have enough of a sway in a community.  
> 2\. By the same timeline, Hancock was born in 2250 (so he's 37 in canon, I know I made him young, shush it). That makes him 35 here.  
> 3\. In my headcanon, Hancock became a ghoul after taking over Goodneighbor. For the sake of my timeline, I made it happen two years pre-canon, two years after he became mayor. He didn't become mayor until almost a year after he left Diamond City.  
> 4\. I love the thought of Fahrenheit being Hancock's daughter and I don't care that the game ignores this shit completely. Also, I love Fahrenheit and she's amazing, why can't she be a companion, thank you.  
> 5\. I called mayor McDonough "Patrick" after his father. Because it was logical in my head. Especially after I decided Hancock has a different father, I thought, hey, maybe let's have the old Patrick call his only son Patrick Junior because, patriarchy. And John's called John because, well. He was fathered by a john. Yeah, old Patrick McDonough is a right bastard.  
> 6\. Bonus fact: You can pry the Nick Valentine/John Hancock ship from my cold, dead fingers. Or, well, you can try. 
> 
> Finally, please visit me on my tumblr sideblog most--curiously--blue--eyes


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